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TIME: Almanac 1995
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<text id=91TT1213>
<title>
June 03, 1991: The Second Triumph of Amy Tan
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1991
June 03, 1991 Date Rape
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
BOOKS, Page 67
The Second Triumph of Amy Tan
</hdr><body>
<p> Fairy tales and Amy Tan seem to keep close company. Two years
ago Tan was just another struggling, unpublished, 37-year-old
writer, making up brochures for computer companies while
composing stories on the side. By the end of 1989 she was the
author of the most admired novel on the best-seller list, her
Joy Luck Club having conquered critics and the public alike. A
literary star had been born overnight--and, in her wake, a
fairy tale's difficult postscript: How could she ever live up
to what felt like a once-in-a-lifetime success?
</p>
<p> At the outset of The Kitchen God's Wife (Putnam; 415
pages; $22.95), one's apprehensions begin to gather like
avenging furies: the opening pages introduce us to a young
Chinese-American woman, her all-American husband and her
inalienably Chinese mother, living around San Francisco--precisely the contemporary scene that made up the least
transporting parts of The Joy Luck Club. For two chapters the
young woman tells a pleasant but unremarkable tale of
sweet-and-sour tensions, haunted by her nagging mother--and
by her nagging sense that her mother and she are speaking
different languages. Then, on page 61, the mother takes over,
and suddenly the book takes flight.
</p>
<p> For almost all the pages that follow, the yeasty old woman
unpacks the rich and terrible secrets of her past, as a young
girl in Shanghai growing up amid a plague of sorrows: how her
own mother abandoned her and she was married off to an ogreish
ne'er-do-well; how they hid in a monastery famous for
dragon-well tea while the Japanese invaded Manchuria; how
somehow she endured the war, losing friends and children along
the way; and how, in the end, indomitable as pain, she escaped
China and her husband just five days before the communist
takeover.
</p>
<p> Almost every page of the old wife's tale is lit up with
the everyday magic of a world in which birds can sound like
women crying and sweaters are knit in the memory of spider webs.
Yet all the storybook marvels are grounded in a survivor's
vinegar wit ("In Nanking, snow is like a high-level official--doesn't come too often, doesn't stay too long"). And in front
of the watercolor backdrops are horrors pitiless enough to mount
a powerful indictment against a world in which women were
taught that love means always having to say you're sorry. In
traditional China, the old widow recalls, "a woman had no right
to be angry."
</p>
<p> Yet the end--and the point--of Tan's novel is
forgiveness, and the way in which understanding the miseries of
others makes it harder to be hard on them. And as the story all
but tells itself--so seamlessly it feels as if Tan's ancestors
are speaking through her--it bestows on us a host of luminous
surprises. The first is that the dowdy, pinchpenny old woman has
a past more glamorous than fairy-tale, and more sad. The second
is that in the light of her trials, her curious superstitions
come to seem as sound as legal evidence. The final surprise may
be the best of all: Tan has transcended herself again,
triumphing over the ghosts, and the expectations, raised by her
magnificent first book.
</p>
<p> By Pico Iyer
</p>
</body></article>
</text>